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speak the patois of the Galls, Rhys Llywelyn?”
    Rhys removed his thumb. “Maman says I must.”
    “Then you must speak Gaelic as well.” Hugh laughed when the boy rolled his eyes. “Go with Tor and Andrus. They would show
     you your horse.”
    Rhys’s eyes widened. “A horse? Truly?”
    “A MacKay is never false to his own, by word or deed, nor does he walk when he can ride. You have a horse.”
    “Oh.” Rhys pondered that. “And am I MacKay or a Llywelyn?”
    “Both,” Hugh told him.
    Rhys smiled. “Good. I want to see my horse.”
    Morrigan put out her hand.
    Hugh could see she wanted to protest that the boy had been given more than enough. He didn’t need anything else. Hugh shook
     his head and she paused.
    “I wouldn’t wipe the joy from his eyes,” she murmured. “Be good for Tor and Andrus.” She took him from Hugh and hugged him.
     “Have you eaten?”
    “Yes. And I’ll be good.” He pushed against her, wriggling to get down and run ahead of the two warriors who were after him
     in an instant.
    It crossed Hugh’s mind that the boy was as dark of eyes and tress as other Welsh he’d known. Neither did he resemble his mother
     with his stocky build and skin that would brown in the sun. He would be a big man one day and he, Hugh of MacKay, would call
     him firstborn.
    “I fear Tor would rather fight a boar than monitor your son.”
    Morrigan chuckled. “He’s a handful.”
    “But you don’t mind.”
    “I love him,” she said, looking up at Hugh.
    A terrific force hit him in the chest. He’d never needed what some referred to as love. The power to lead his clan and protect
     it was all he craved. Now another potency had taken the breath from his body, and had his heart hammering against his ribs.
     Used to seeking, finding,and nailing down his needs and wants by cajolery, battle, or intrigue, it stunned him that he was all but impotent to gain
     what he desired most. The woman and all the feeling she could have. It would have to be freely given, for in no other way
     could he savor the passion he knew was there, embedded in those eyes and in his wife’s wonderful form. He wanted it all, not
     from duty, but from the same emotion that spurred her feelings toward the boy.
    Hugh was glad when a border laird caught her attention. It allowed him to study her, and steady himself. It wouldn’t do to
     let her know how many times she’d shaken his equanimity. She had power enough.
    “Och, milady, you honor all of Scotland wi’ your words.”
    Hugh blinked, concentrating. What had she said to old Gordon?
    “Not at all, sirrah. I’ve been to your border lands and seen your wondrous herds of sheep and stoat. Marvelous they are, to
     be sure.” She swept her hand in a small arc. “The hills so green and purple, the sky so blue. Even your mist has magic.” Morrigan
     felt Hugh’s gaze even as she conversed with the bluff borderer. “I’ve also heard of your family, er, clan, Laird Gordon. Their
     wondrous deeds are sung far and wide.”
    Pushing out his chest, he put his ham hand on her arm. “You’ll do, missy, you’ll do.” He gazed at Hugh. “ ’Tis blest you are,
     MacKay. So I’ve said it. Give her good care or answer to me.”
    Hugh ground his teeth staring at Gordon. When the borderer glared for a moment, then roared with mirth, Hugh’s fists ached
     to connect with the older man’s jaw. Ian Gordon had been like a father to him. Damn his eyes!
    “Be on your guard, missy. Your laird is a jealous lump.”
    “What…” She was talking to air. Gordon had wandered off. “What did he—?”
    “Nothing. We’ll tarry here, and taste the sweets that’ve come from the kitchen.” Hugh took hold of her waist and swung her
     over the nearby bench, then seated himself at her side. As custom demanded, he tasted the cakes and buns first, then fed them
     to her. He didn’t hear the ribald remarks. His attention was on his bride, who had only bites of the sweets and sips of the